


Cirice

by AnonymousMonotonous



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Other, Parental Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:16:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5780209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousMonotonous/pseuds/AnonymousMonotonous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally Electric Hearts Beatin', this is the second version of the same fanfic, but edited. Somethings are different than the other, but they will follow the same general storyline.</p><p>The title 'Cirice', is the song from Ghost, which is a big influencial band that I've listened to while writing. Other songs such as Pull Me Under by Dream Theater have also been listened to. </p><p>This writing is done while under the influence of marijuana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Electric Hearts Beatin'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1894920) by [AnonymousMonotonous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousMonotonous/pseuds/AnonymousMonotonous). 



I've liked music. For as long as I can remember, music has been my first memory. I remember vividly, blond hair wagging happily around me, glowing in the sun. I was barely turning four. It was my birthday. I wore a long T-shirt, decorated in vivid 60's text from my mother that said "Keep it real.", with a pair of blue jeans. I ignored Michael Saunders, eating half his weight in my birthday cake, and ran head-on to my father.   
"Daddy, Daddy!" My shrill, childish voice rang out in the summer evening air. "Who are these guys!?" I jumped into his arms, which he caught me with such a strong grip I always forget the strength of my Daddy. His chest, big and muscular, shook under his arms as he picked me up and walked me over to the large stereo in a corner. I heard a few beeps and I was startled. I saw a small, vivid colored logo in front of me. The BeeGee's.   
I looked up at him through stray locks that hid my eyes. He was tall and very dang muscular. Long black, slightly greasy hair was pulled into a ponytail, then wrapped again with a bandana. You really couldn't tell that he was in his thirties, with a face of a model. He used to be a motorcycle gang, but now he was only involved in music recording. "I'm gonna listen to lotsa music Daddy!" I exclaimed, clinging tightly to his Van Halen T-Shirt. "Lots and Lots!"

The last few days of the summer year of highschool faded away into nothingness. I was very bright at school...just not in math or other school subjects. 

I like my color. I dress vibrant, and expressing my style of music and creative outlook by showing off my dyed hair—bright bubblegum blue with streaks of light pink and a little purple. I wear a lot of makeup, especially when I go to concerts. Black and gold, or different shades of neon. 

It's the last day of school, it was a half day. I bid my friends goodbye as they left for their own personal summer trips. One was going to Europe, and the other was going to their summer home. Happy, family things like that.

Not for me, though. 

For a while, it was hard at home. My dad is dead, for one thing. 

It was cancer that took him away. We learned what happened after the last Van Halen concert I saw with them. I've grown up to be very musically oriented, which my mother and father both absorbed. In the parking lot, we had to call 911 because he said his chest was hurting really bad. Four hours later, he died while holding my hand. He gave me his silver scorpion—a large metal scorpion on a thick metal chain. I treasure it. 

Mom just didn't care. My mother doesn't really get along with me. For some reason, she just changed after his death. A few days passed before I fell into a same pattern. By the time I get home, mom is usually almost ready to leave, or already gone for weeks on end with other boyfriends. She drinks way to much alcohol and smokes a lot. 

Whenever she isn't gone, she'll usually talk to me, or go to bars or something. Instead of cooking or being at home with me, she leaves about a hundred dollars for a week. I do all the grocery shopping, laundry, and cleaning while she goes off to party. 

I waited for the light to change, and reached over to my ipod in my light green jeans. It was a cold, icy blue with lots of dirty stickers on the back. About a year ago, I instantly fell in love with this band—Steam Powered Giraffe. They are a really cool group of guys who perform a pantomime act as robots who escaped from war, and reprogrammed for music and entertainment. The music is wonderful, the lore is amazing and creative, and they are really approachable with the community.

Ever since joining the fandom and discovering their creation, my life has changed.

You see, I cut myself.

I am a clammed shut with my life. My mother won't let me talk about her dead husband,and she leaves me alone for days on end. The knives on my skin offer comfort. I wear only long sleeved shirts, so no one can see the disgusting scars. Whenever I see the bright red blood welling from the scars, I imagine my mother slipping away to nothingness.

Sometimes, the music would pull me away, and sometimes it won't. It varies.


	2. Lament

With Daddy's hundreds of CD's surrounding me, many T-Shirts, jeans, bracelets, and bandanas I've claimed as my own, different photographs of memories, there is something I own that holds all of this together. His scorpion. On his deathbed, he asked me to remove his metal scorpion from around his neck. He got it when he was running a thrift store donation setup four only fifty cents. It's about four inches long, quite heavy and really shiny, on a thick chain. He gave it to me.   
"Keep on trekking'. My little metal head." He whispered, voice thick and rasping with every breath taken. Those were his last words. Holding onto his hand, necklace around my neck, his hand went cold. That same night, I discovered through a voice mail message not even a day later that my mother already got another boyfriend. It was eight thirty. I began getting ready for the concert.  
Last night I found the concert ticket awaiting me. Mom had written my name on a envelope with the ticket and money for tonight. To get there, I have to walk and take a bus.  
I got dressed in tight grey jeans and black and white oxfords. I wore my van halen shirt and a black hoodie. My hair was bound up high at the scalp with a colorful scrunchie. I did my makeup, bright neon shades with glitter. In my purse, I stashed away some makeup, my phone, and the envelope.  
Something stopped me when I opened the door. A taxi cab pulled off infront of the house, hidden behind a mass of trees. I ducked down in the corner of the patio, the porch swing hiding most of me. I pulled my hood up, hiding the color of my hair from sight.   
I recognize that curvaceous figure anywhere. I grimaced tightly, hating the sight of her. My mother. The dark red dress makes her look like a version of Jessica Rabbit. My mother used to dress in cool heavy metal outfits—tight jeans and band tshirts, but now dresses like out of a movie—like the poor old widow, dining on the most expenive of liquors paired with equally costly tobacco.  
I tugged the strings of the hood tight around my head just as she trotted up the pathway. She seductively tugged a guy with the tie of his bussiness suit. I don't even have to think of what they're going to do. I just know it.  
I got out of the cramped position a while later. I ventured down the dark street, slowly letting my head free of the hood.  
My fingers close around the wooden handle of the knife in my pocket. It's small and thin, like a pearing knife, a three-inch blae. What started the whole thing is my mother.They said he would be dead by morning. I stood against the wall, ignoring the hospitals uncomfortable chairs used outside the patient doors. I cried, burying my face in Daddy's famous shirts. The Van Halen one. Mom stood in front of me, tapping a box of Marlboro Lights against her chest. I opened my mouth, wanting, needing to talk to someone in front of me. I wanted someone to have wide, open ears ready for me to speak my feelings toward. She wasn't one of them.   
I started cutting myself that night, with a stolen scalpel I stole from a nurse. I felt myself attracted to the steely silver metal, bone cold. I felt less pain when hurting myself, and more from the lack of communication with my mother.  
"No, Isabelle." She cut me off, turning away to hide her eyes from my own. "Not now, not ever. I simply can't talk about it."   
That was the last thing she said to me, before I was alone in the hospital, with my dying father, her dying husband. When I stayed that night with Daddy, there wasn't anyone at home, either. There was a message on the phone's answering machine. In the darkness of a lonely home, I only listened to a message going on repeat. A guy called. Wanting a 'Bit of Fun'."  
Because of what my mother did, blocking my want to talk to her about this, I have learned that no one is around for me. I thought about journaling, but my thoughts were to rushed, unable to be put down on paper as fast as my thoughts had wanted. Even therapy. I was almost given medication to be used. No way.  
Two months later, I discovered the music video Steam Powered Giraffe's Brass Goggles. Something inside of me had remembered to check my history, to find that faulty video that wouldn't work. I felt comfort and relaxation, furiously discovering more and more of the bands harmonics as one.   
I still try not to cut myself. Sometimes it works, and other times I still do it. I tried to imagine the group standing over me, helping me out. 

It just doesn't work.


	3. Arrival

The concert takes place in the next town, about two hours on the bus before I get anywhere nearby. Those coming home from work chose this bus. A variety of people crowd the seats with some standing. It was really crowded for a while, but now it's just me and some others in front. The light is flickering on and off, casting a shadow of uncertainty.

I glance down at my phone. It's only eight o' clock, and I'm exhausted. It was a half day at school, so I don't know why I feel drained. I gripped my legs close to my chest, bracing them against the next seat in front of me. I let my eyes slowly shut to the wide eclectic music on my ipod. The last thing I remember is smiling softly as Honeybee before falling asleep.

I must've slept for an hour, because the familiar tones of the bus stops above me start to sound recognizable. In a tired stupor I press the button to let me off.

I don't know much about this town, only important things like the bus routes and where the concert is. It's a large steampunk themed bar four blocks away.

I reached into my pocket and found the money from my 14th birthday party last month, almost a hundred dollars. Plus the money that my mom gave me. That's at least three hundred dollars.

I know that my mother buys me out. She gives me lots of money she gets from being a whore, buying me anything I wanted. I got a computer, and a ps3 because of her. For a while I felt disgusted and angered by her attitude toward me that I hid away. Eventually, I took advantage of it all and fell in love with nerdy groups at cons, librarys, and the web. I guess the computer an ps3 have become my mother.

I looked down at my wrist and pulled the thick sleeve away. The wound is pink with dried blood staining the edges. Numbness from the intense cold brought my fingers to wrap tightly in the sleeves. The length of my thumb matched the line of the cut. I pressed down on it, hoping to dull the bleeding until I get to the concert and maybe find a bandaid or something.

A lone walk with a dead ipod is boring. The thought of going home hits me as I pull the jacket close. It's really cold. My wrist isn't bleeding anymore, but if I don't treat it soon it could bleed again. Home has everything I need; a warm bed, food, and a first-aid kit. I'm still going to the concert—family isn't at home.

It's at the concert.


	4. Visitor

The last concert I went to I had an unwelcomed guest. 

My mom forced me to go to a bar with her where some new heavy metal bands who were trying to get noticed would perform. I hated the bar. It was smelly and disgusting, with lots of biker guys giving me leery looks. It was a few days after Daddy died. I hated everyone. I yelled at teachers. Ditched school, and ran across the street to the store and steal stuff. I ran home through the cold city after she made me drink beer.

She forgot about her old lover. I can almost see Daddy from heaven, watching her and sighing in pity. I remember that night. I ran in my room and buried my head in my Daddy's old Tshirt. It was a old one, that smelled of sweet marijuana leaves but also had the ripe odor of motorcycle grease. I wear it almost every day. In my hope of comfort of wearing it, I've ruined it. It doesn't have his smell anymore. Now, it smells like blood.

I thought about Steam Powered Giraffe on my walk. I got in line a half hour before they open, so I was left alone with my thoughts. I sipped on a coke, crouched in the crowd. It was dark and vibrant. I watched with awe and interest as steampunk themed songs thudded behind my ears.

My free hand gripped onto my knee. I shuddered at the thought of what she might be doing right now. Sex, drugs, or probably waiting for a client. Before all of this, she used to work at a music store. I don't know what clicked in her head for her to change like this, but it's all going to be soon behind me. She has never hit me or anything, but if she sees me I can see her expression change. I wonder who she sees when she looks at me. Dad, or me?

I know for a fact that what she is doing is illegal, but what I can I do? I'm only sixteen, and no one ever listens to teenagers. Right after his death, I looked into many options of therapy. Some kind of group, and even a little bit of self harm therapy, which was in groups. I felt immense hatred for the therapist I was assigned to. A balding, gross man with pock marks tried to make me wear short sleeves and tried to put me on medication. 

I don't mind what my mom is doing. I am somewhat happy, and I get all the free stuff and money from her. I gripped my hands together and felt myself fall asleep. 

I grew tired of the cold, humid cement and lulled myself awake. I felt sick, both emotionally and physically. I felt light headed and dazed, with a dull nausea sensation spreading over my stomach. My ipod blared one of the many pure heavy metal songs I like—UFO's “Rock Bottom”. The heavy music only gave me a headache. The door of the club was open, with a bouncer dressed in black by the door. I got up, gave him the ticket and let my hand be stamped with a 'under 21' seal. His thumb pressed on the inside of my wrist, sending heavy shivers down my spine.

I felt so very sick and tired that I let myself plunk down onto one avaliable seat, where I was able to take in view of the whole place. It's one of the very few 100% steampunk-themed clubs that is close enough for cheap travel. A large dance floor with a wide bar with gorgeous paintings covering the marroon walls. A mix of Walter Worker girls and waitresses in gorgeous petticoats swerved through the crowds. I took hold of the drink menu, with my finger stopping directly on hard liquor. I let my finger stay there, with dull memory of how putrid the beer tasted when I was with my mother.

“If you want that, you gotta' show I.D.” A perky waitress said beside me. I ignored her grimace spreading on her freckled cheeks. “Just give me the Rainbow Temple.” I murmured, sending her away with the pay. The drink was eye-catching. A bright shirley temple with rainbow sour syrup swirled on the glass. Candied oranges with marchino cherries lining the edges. 

I sat and watched as a band got up and started to perform. The whole band was playing a really soft song that I know fondly. The Fragrance of Dark Coffee from one of my videogames. It was mesmerizing, watching the many couples, dressed up in gorgeous steampunk attire. Washes of pink and soft brown swirl together with the gothic, vampiric glamour flow around the dance floor. 

I don't know why, but the continous flow of the extravagant outfits brought on a feeling of sick. I looked down at my hands—a mistake. Bright red blood oozed against the cuff of my hoodie. An imprint of blood stained the table. I barely managed to smear the stain away and push myself out of the crowded club and into the bathroom.

It was tiny, and only able to fit one person. Many magazine and newspaper articles about cool topics were slathered in mod-podge type glue. I locked the door and sat down against the wall, staring deeply at the bleeding wound. I brushed away a strand of pale blue tresses. I was somehow mesmerized by the strands of light silver against the red and white.

I really need to go home. That made it painfully obvious when I retched in the toilet at the sight of my blood. I sipped some water from the sink and did my best to clean and keep a handful of paper towels on my wrist. I tried to leave, but a dainty han clasped my shoulder.

“Miss, you need to pay for your drink.”

I turned around to see the perky waitress, glaring at me deeply. Someone came up to her and I froze. 

David Michael Bennett, handing the waitress a few dollar bills. “Allow me to pay for the drink.”


	5. Friend

My heart fell through my chest and pinned my legs down. Some unseen magnetic force kept me down against the wall. The echoes of heavy falling rain pelted the ceiling. Wind and thunder shook the building.

“I hope you're okay with it, but I wouldn't want you to pay for it. It sounded right for me to pay for a colorful drink, when a very colorful girl ordered it.”

I don't know how much time passed when he looked down at me. He towered over me at least a foot. The scent of his makeup wafted down to me and mixed the the artificial heat. My heart pulsated in my chest. 

“Th-Thank you!” I stuttered, opening my wallet with shakey hands. “How much was--”

“Don't worry about it,” He commented, patting my shoulder gruffly. “We get everything cheaper, since we're performing tonite.”

“Thanks so much!” I blurted out, feeling the heat spread over my cheecks. “Really, you didn't have to!”

“Really, it's okay.” He said. He gripped my shoulder slightly, turning me over. “Would you accompany me ?” He asked, motioning to a small booth stuck in a corner. All I could do was nod.

I barely felt my weight distribute into the soft maroon leather cushion. My fingers locked around the glass of my drink like an iron grip. Every sip I took sent dull shivers through my spine and my fingertips. The sleeves of my hoodie were pulled tight into a grasp, with only the first two peaking out. Warm artificial air blew the nervous sweat dry on my forehead.

“You look to young to be in a bar, so I'm guessing you're here to see us?” I had to focus directly at him to hear him through the bustling crowd. I recognized most of the fandom arriving and mingling in the crowd. “Is your Mom or Dad here?”

“No,” I cringed out, feeling a slight tinge of bile rise up. I quickly took a small sip and took a breath. “I came by myself.”

“By yourself?” He repeated, his brow tightening. I saw a crease of his pale skin wrinkle underneath the silver makeup. “There aren't any apartments or houses for miles. How far do you live.”

“Just the next town over, it's no big deal.” I reassured him with a chuckle. “It's a one shot bus ride.”

Why is he talking to me? The thought ran through my head. He turned around momentairly to adjust something. I looked into the crowd for a moment. I felt something tug my eyes and follow the dizzying sway of the crowd.

“Are you okay?” His worried tone etched me. His hand gripped onto the sleeve of my upper arm. “You don't look so good.”

“I'm okay.” I replied, balling a handful of the sleeve an shoving my hair back. “I guess I'm just tired. It was the last day of school before summer break, and I guess I'm not used to the amount of free time that I got now.”

I was lying. I got a lot of free time, now that it is the start of summer vacation, but that also ment being around my mom 24/7. I can only do so much—only waking up early and going to different libraries, restaurants, malls, and parks. 

At 11:00, I'm supposed to be inside by state curfew. My mom doesn't bother me, but I feel all the hate of her as she silently drags in a guy up the stares and into his room. Some nights I can't sleep and listen to their disturbing antics with some kind of drug smoke filling my room. 

“I also wanted to know about your hair,” He said with a small laugh. “It's amazing!”

I pulled up a strand of the hair to let his gloved fingers rub against. “I'm here playing with your hair and I didn't even get your name.”

“Isabelle,” I said, shrugging my shoulders. “I'm peachykeennillabean on tumblr. Remember, I wrote that fanfiction about The Spine.” I reached into my bag and showed him the scrawled notes on notebook paper. I was snuggled in my room with loud music when I wrote that. Heavy metal, Slayer Raining Blood fueled a world of falling blood on the battlefield. 

“I was wondering...Do you want to go meet Bunny?”

I froze. Bunny, too? Part of me felt elated. A bubble of warmth filling my chest. 

“Yes, I do!” I nodded a few times. I reached to take his hand, as he lead me off through the crowd into the darkness. I forgot everything negative within me, and let the bounce in my step take me away.


	6. View

Nervous, sweaty fingers made it hard for me to hold onto my fathers necklace. I constantly laced and tugged at the chain, tightening around my fingers.

I let a some song lyrics echo in my head, forcing me down into the hallway. Just count to ten. Shinedown. Cut The Cord. I followed down the hallway with David not to far ahead of me.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked him, shyly tugging a strand of hair away. I shoved my necklace in my pocket, some of the chain dangling down my thigh. We stopped at two double doors and rested his hand on the handle. 

“I wouldn't have brought you here if I wanted you to see them.”

I took a breath, and pondered my thoughts for a second. Could there really be anything negative that can happen if I were to go and meet the rest of them. The least I can do is get through this concert and go back to my normal life.

“Alright, I guess it won't hurt seeing them.” I shrugged my shoulders. The weight of my red plaid backpack was lifted off my shoulers. He motioned at my sweater.”It's a little hot in here, do you really need to wear that?”

“Yeah, I do.” I replied. I felt my tone suddenly turn dark. He said nothing and opened the door. I held my breath and crept inside, my head low.

I couldn't recognize the three different voices through the loud heartbeat in my ears. My cheeks felt hot with blood pumping. I didn't register the voice that came closer and closer to me. Bunny.

“So, this is Isabelle?” He asked. He didn't wear any makeup, only wearing a black shirt and grey jeans. 

“Hi, Bunny. “ I said, keeping my tone even. My fingers tightened around each other in the pockets of my hoodie, hoping to find some relief from the cold numb feeling on my hands. “You're hair...” He whispered in awe, taking hold of a few strands of my hair in his pale fingers. The length of hair sloped own my shoulders. “Where did you get it done?”

“A normal salon,” I replied, shrugging my shoulders. “Professionally done.”

I remember the day I got the hair done professionally. It was around the time when Mom started paying me to get out of her hair. She gave me anything I wanted, just to stay out of her business. 

“Jon, come and meet Isabelle.” Bunny called over. The tall, gangly performer strutted over to me, his long wavy golden hair flopping over one of his bright blue eyes. 

“It's good to meet you,” He said, taking my hand for a brief shake before pulling me into a tight hug. I'm not used to all of this love.

“So,” David said behind me. “It's time for the show, but you get something special.” 

“Special?” I repeated. Wordlessly, he showed me to an iron folding chair hidden behind stage. My own front stage view.


	7. Lost

I didn't feel to awkard, driving in the large truck with three strangers. I doze carefully, head against the windshield. I woke up just as we pulled up to my street. I let go of a stressfully held in breath as I saw the red glimmer of mom's shiny red car pull off. 

“We're going to come back in a few hours. I'll give you a call when we get a few minutes away.”

The truck skidded away with the tires echoing in the empty street. I sighed, some of my hair lifting from under my hood. Literally overnight the minds behind what has kept me going is going to stay over at my house tonight. Conflicting feelings lead me over through to the front door. Getting ready seemed to be easy. I turned on the porch light and stuck some leftover dinner in the oven to heat up and yanked out cushions from the couch. The last time I used the pull out bed was years ago. I made it up quickly with old wool blankets.

A sudden ill feeling started to settle with me as I looked at my cellphone in my hands. The cool icy touch of the metal molded into my grasp. Thunder and lightning sparked across the sky every few minutes. I was lucky about the rain, and getting home was just the right thing I needed to boost my mood up. In just two hours, I felt rejuvinated, unlike before. I took care to bandage my wrist perfectly with an ace bandage partially up my arm. The heater is on, making my house feel like a home.

It definitly feels like home, but it never will be. 

I turned on the 80's music channel and flopped on the couch. The beep of a text message made me look at my phone. I got a text from David, just a picture of a gorgeous scene, taken at the exact second of a lightning flash. 

Some kind of numbness had settled over me during the rest of the night. 

I let time go past me with general ease and settled into being at home without a mother. About half an hour later I got bored,itching to do something in preparing for them to come. I checked on the dinner and took it out of the oven. Just as I sat the pan on two hot plates to cool, the home phone rang behind me.

Only one ring. 

What the? I asked myself, turning off the oven. Just as my foot took one step closer, I froze, hearing the voice stab into my heart.

“I didn't want to bug you on your cell, 'cause you'd be busy.” Mom. She sounds either very drunk or tired, or possibly wired on some kind of drug. “But I ain't comin' home. I'll be wiring money to you every few months, but that's it.”


	8. Fade

remember the first time Mom left me alone. It just came out of nowhere. I was sitting in my room, watching a funny swedish guy play a walkthrough (hi pewdiepie :3 ) when my mom knocked on my door once. As she walked out, she said something as simple as “I'll see you later, I'm going out.”

I guess it's still simple for her.

Every move she made in my mind at this very moment pushed the knife in my skin with growing intensity. Her wails fueled by high prof alcohol, grunt in pain of random sex and her ghastly notrils sucking in fine white powder carved over a sheet of mirror.

The dull ache of pain took over me quickly. I had to blink myself awake to make the pain go away. I don't remember much after that phone call. Walking into the kitchen, reaching into one of the drawers, and then the icy cold tiles of a bathroom floor pressed into my cheeck.

I feel sick. A thin layer of sweat makes my makeup run down my cheeks. I flick on the light and try to study the figure in the mirror. Messed up hair, makeup smeared beyond fixing from never ending emotion spilling out. 

And blood.

I froze at the sight of the blood, my fingers tracing the reflection's cheek. I took a tight breath in, looking at my wrist. “W-What did I just do...?” I squeaked out, feeling darkness spread in the side of my vision.

Marks of the little clips on the ace bandage dug into my skin with major intensity that small bruises welted into the skin. Down near my wrist, the edges of skin limped away as an exposed part of my wrist pumped away blood. It coated my fingers, layers of the thin dark red liquid dripping down the tips of my colorful manicured nails, staining my moms fluffy white shag rug. I tried to grip the fingers of my other hand, but something stopped me. The gleam of blood soaking the knives edge shocked me away. I let go of the knife with a yelp, the squeak of my voice barely audible in comparison to the clatter of metal on tile.

I don't know how long I stood there, the dull feeling of my shoulder pounding with the weight of me pressing on it. I grabbed the nearest towel—a small washcloth and pinned it around my wrist. I tried to walk out of the bathroom with a fake composition, but it didn't work. The cool look on my face was taken away when I saw David standing in my doorway. I quickly moved my wrist behind my back and gripped on it tightly with my other hand. That only made the pain worse, but it lessened the flow of blood.

“You have a really nice house,” Bunny commented from behind David. The girth of a few duffel bags dragged his shoulder own. Jon came from behind him to take the bags and set them down.

“Thanks...” I said with a low tone. Suddenly, the aroma of the warm chicken casseroll filled the air. “I put some leftovers in the kitchen for you guys.”

I lost all sense of myself when I watched them go ahead. The fingers lost the grip of my wrist, letting my arms dangle down by my sides. Iron wafted up to my nose from the blood hitting the carpet. My head lowered, with a sharp sense of virtiginous focusing over my eyes.

“Isabelle, who made this casseroll? It's amazing!”

“My mom.”

Mom.


End file.
